


A Pair Of Ill Fitting Pants and Other Dire Hedious Clothes

by Lady_Romana



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: ASOUE - Freeform, F/M, full of headcanon, here it is, it's gonna be a long one boys, let's see if i follow through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Romana/pseuds/Lady_Romana
Summary: Some unfortunate events that happen to noble people are recorded, and they are considered tragedies. The ones that happen to less likeable and just noble enough people go by unquestioned, unnoticed, unrecorded. Because no one believes they're a tragedy. They believe they're called justice.[Otherwise entitled: The story of what truly happened between Count Olaf, Kit Snicket and La Forza Del Destino. This is the rewritten version!]





	1. Chapter 1

If you have read other love stories, then you might be familiar with the notion of love at first sight. I must warn you that this is not a love story. It _is_ a story about love, a love that was lived and felt long before the story in which you first heard about it, but you will not find sticky sweet moments, or heartbreaks undone. In this story there is no love at first sight. There is only watching, with a single and a thousand eyes.

They had seen each other before, surely. He had watch her strut down staircases, and run across long corridors. He had watched her stand on her tiptoes, reaching for the one book in the tallest bookshelf. He had watched her take notes, and he had watched her stand still in a cupboard, meant to be mistaken by cinnamon. He had watched the wind steal away her beret, and smiled to himself as she went _up_ and _down_ , _up_ and _down_ , _up_ and _down_ , flinging her arms in a fight to retrieve it. She won.  He had watched her flip page after page of brown book after blue book after green book, not once wondering what might make them so interesting.  He had watched her do something he often did himself, only being smarter about it by slipping a note through an unsuspecting shoelace. What he had seen of her he’d found charming, but that most of all.

She had seen him hiding under the staircase when he still fit there, stretching his legs to make others trip and fall to his feet. She’d heard his laugh about it grow deeper and deeper, until he was too tall to pull off the trick. She’d watched him doodle and scribble, and she’d almost missed him when he pretended to be a lamp in a house that didn’t belong to either of them.  She had watched him almost trip on his shoelaces, and smugly recover when he thought he’d gone unseen. She had watched him _tear_ and _rip!_ and _crackle_ page after page of book after book and crumple them into balls he would toss at anyone and everyone, as she crunched her nose and shut her eyes at the sound, not once wanting to know which works were now incomplete. She had watched him mutter and murmur words to himself across the hallways, his arms and legs always flying about as though he talked with his entire body. Most of what she’d seen of him she found annoying, but that she found more amusing than most.

With all that they’d seen of each other and all they might have seen together you would think they were close. _Acquainted_ , at least. You would think they would’ve at least once locked eyes. But as anything in their lives, it was only bound to happen when meticulously planned and priorly arranged. It happened in the Library of a School whose name must remain Confidential, so we shall call it Confidential Secondary School. It also happened on the day before the first day of what would have been their last year there, had they had a usual education.

 They were the two only people in it, so it was impossible for them not to catch each other on the watch when he _dropped!_ a book on the table, and then _draped!_ Himself the appropriate number of chairs away. There was no great flare to it. The world’s pace did not suddenly shift to slow motion, nor either of them seem to glow. If anything she huffed, and though the stare lingered a little longer than any other would, it eventually broke.

Despite the meticulous planning behind one side of the table and the wishful thinking from the other, there wasn’t much after the glance. Only the _tap tap tap_ of his feet, and the _flick flick flick_ of her pages. Neither of them could think of a thing to say other than ‘I wish you’d stop making that noise’, which is nothing either of them _wished_ to say. He wished there was a way to ask if those were new glasses (he knew they were) and to add they looked better than the old ones (they did, and he thought the old ones looked good enough) without making it go up her head. It would go up _his_ head if _he_ told _himself_ something like that. 

She stopped wishing she could say something and asked him “Are you memorizing lines?” instead. He looked up from his crumpled pages, his lips curling up in a smirk. Smug. (It _would_ go up his head if she said anything at all – anything that proved she’d been _watching_ ).  His smirk turned into a chuckled sneer. “Duh. Why else would I be here?”

“Recreation” she answered, shrugging lightly. “Though I suppose memorizing lines _is_ recreational, if you are the sort of person who enjoys that sort of thing” she added, in a tone that suggested that sort of person was _uncouth_. She titled her head and pushed her glasses back, as to say it. _Flick_ , went another page.

He scoffed and leaned back in his chair. _Typical_. In second thought, those new glasses didn’t look any better than the old ones. Or any worse. They looked exactly the same. Just as she looked and acted exactly the same way _they_ all did.  Noses either stuck in a book or up in the air. As if they’d get anything but dusty. He – _he_ would get famous. “The _sort of person_ who _has_ to do _that sort of thing_ is called an act _or_ ” he replied, suggesting it was the best thing a person could be. Other than a future count. “Not that you’d know, since I’ve never seen you behind a curtain, let alone in front of a stage.”

Her left eyebrow lifted, as did her gaze from the page. “And I’d never seen _you_ here in your leisure time before” her tone unafraid to let him know she _had_ been watching, but didn’t really care much, “yet that doesn’t mean I don’t find you, or the people who memorize lines, interesting.”

And just like that, his smile returned. All on its own, without him having to draw it out. _Interesting_. And he stretched himself taller, leaning against her slightly _. Interesting_. Confidence works like that, as does conceitedness. “No kidding. _Everybody_ does. The admiration, the applause. It’s why we do what we do.”

“ _Hmph_ ” she leaned back against her chair, growing a sly smile of her own. “I thought you did so to deliver a message. That is, after all, the intent and purpose of art. To elicit _something_.”

“Sure, that too, why not” he shrugged, his hooky nose turning even hookier as it scrunched.  He tried to think of something else to say, a way to bend or stretch the conversation. But much like a rubber band, it seemed to have snapped, and silence reigned for a few seconds.  The smiles drew themselves back. He sniffed, and turned back to his text.

“I am also memorizing” she said softly. “That is why I asked. I happen to find it interesting enough to give it a try, and you interesting enough to ask what you’re memorizing this time. I figure auditions are tomorrow” she slipped the word ‘figure’ in a way that truly meant ‘ _know_.’

His one eyebrow went up, scrunching up his forehead as well. “Perceptive,” was all he said.

“Perceptive?” her eyebrows went up too. “Not familiar with it.”

“No,” he smiled again. Surprisingly pleasantly, she found herself thinking. “You’re perceptive. More than I thought you were.” Silence. “I took off all the audition flyers so no one would mess up _my_ play, and yet you know.”

She decided to skip the reprimand on just how unjust a thing to do that was, and smiled back instead. Very pleasant and surprisingly smug, he thought. Especially because he was expecting the reprimand, and had slid the comment just to test how she’d react. Surprising indeed.

“My brother told me before you did,” she admitted, cleverly leaving the world ‘little’ out of the sentence. Her brother liked being called little just as much as she suspected Olaf would like him being brought up in conversation, from the way the former spoke about the latter. They were just getting on each other’s good graces, no use spoiling it now.

“Huh,” his smile did shrink.  “Whatever. What _you’re_ memorizing matters more. _I’ll_ be the lead no matter what. Es too. Wouldn’t waste my breath if I were you,” and he meant it. Nonchalantly. Blatantly. Arrogantly. So much for good graces.   

Not bothering to argue that –untrue as she wanted to prove it –, she _flicked_ another page without looking away from him. While it was true theatre was not one of her predominant interests, their profession required a certain level of skill at deception, and she was only a bit too sour to hear her reputation didn’t gain her the slightest bit of his faith. _He’d learn_.  “I haven’t decided what to audition with yet. As I said before, what matters most is not the role I get, it’s the _message_ I convey.”

“Then aim for a speaking role at least” he teased her, the curve in his smile tilting to the left. Had he received no training at all? It seemed like he was listening without listening at all. Well, if he missed the message that means he would’ve failed the test without her even starting it.

“No role is unimportant to a good, _perceptive_ audience” she insisted. “You may be a good performer, but I am beginning to doubt you make a good audience.”

Ah, penny dropped. So, this wasn’t all about _him_. Well it was, but it wasn’t about him _him_. It was about him as a part of _them_. She had a message to convey.

 Half of him was annoyed _that_ had to be brought into the sanctuary of the theatre, the other half intrigued. If they were bringing _this_ into _that_ … it wasn’t bound to be as boring as it always was. Tedious, boring, _all done for someone else and for no reason he was allowed to know_. “I’m a _do_ er, not a _sitter_. Doesn’t mean I don’t listen.”

“Good” she responded, shutting her book closed. So, even though he’d just terribly misused sitter, he was clever enough to have understood. That was no less than she expected. She started methodically collecting her things, and stood up just to fix her gaze on his. “Then I hope you’ll be part of the audience during my audition.”

Before he could reply, she turned on her heels and left.

* * *

 

It was _ten to five_ when students started walking inside the auditorium. It had not changed at all. The wood on the stage was rickety, and they could almost hear it croaking without anyone stepping on it. The cushioned red seats were still dusty and the old curtains had not been changed. Unchanged as it was, they were all whispering. Their mouths open, their eyebrows up, and their eyes wide open. The strange sight causing exchanged looks and slower steps was Olaf. He sat sprawled on the back row, occupying three seats: one for his long legs (his feet shamelessly where someone’s arm should rest), the other for his torso, and one for the tip of his hair, his head hanging on an armrest and his hands cupping his neck.

 It wasn’t him or the uncomfortable position he sat on that was shocking –if there was anywhere he was bound to be on time and at absolute ease, it was this club –,   it was that him, unlike the auditorium, was squeaky clean and scrubbed. Not a grease stain on his vest, not a hair out of place. Even his eyebrow seemed to have risen up to the occasion, looking _un_ -bushy. And even more shocking it was _where_ he had decided to sprawl.  Had this been any other class, any other club, that would’ve been his natural place. In drama club? He liked to be front and centre. No, he _demanded_ to be front and centre.

The eyes of anyone who’d signed up for the club before lingered on him when they entered, but only so briefly. They were all too thrilled at the prospect of him for once not trying to hoard the stage to mind it or wonder why that even was. Olaf himself had started to wonder about the _other_ change when the clock ticked five past five, and the quarter full room was as full of his annoying schoolfellows as it was bound to get. Though no one had said a word to him ( _smart_ ), he was sure they’d all noticed he’d polished his shoes. His best shoes.  Trying his best to ignore their chittering, he examined his fingernails, and let his eyes flicker from them to the entrance frame once. And again. And again.

At five o-eight he had started to feel a little silly for scrubbing them. Idiotic was more like it. Why had he prepared his looks at all? And found a seating spot fit for an _entrance_? There was more than a fair chance she wouldn’t show. That she had simply _tried_ to appear interesting yesterday, he thought. Yes, that made sense. She wasn’t, after all. And if _he_ had been alone with _him_ , he too would’ve tried to make himself interesting too. How could he know for sure, anyway? They barely knew each other, barely being a stretch. Before that, he’d only _seen_ her, not _talked_ to her. Annoying girl like her would probably be trying to sign up for the chess club or the astronomy club or the – _ugh!_ – poetry club. Maybe she was already sitting there, thinking she had been so witty and so charming and that she’d said something else entirely, and that _he_ would show _there_. Ha! He almost smirked at the thought, scrubbing a speck of dirt off  one of his nails. As if.

The thought ‘considering our conversation meant anything at all’ nearly crossed his mind, but he swatted it away as one would a bothersome mosquito before it has the chance to bite.  Still, it is known that until you gently guide it out the window and close it well shut or, if you are more like Olaf, crush it dead with a newspaper, mosquitos don’t take long before buzzing back into your ear.

At five and a quarter his mosquito thought was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Du-Pits and his curly red moustache. It flew away, leaving him with the conclusion that he was scrubbed clean and on time for a single important reason, a reason that would’ve made him show up that exact same way regardless of her: the theatre. He hadn’t put his best foot (and face, and shoes, and pants) forward for some _girl_.  He was doing what he did every year, nothing more and nothing less. And he’d sat at the back because he fancied it.

He was nodding along to that thought when she strode in, a pile of books in her arms, and chased after Mr. Du-Pits as he assorted his own pile of papers in the director’s desk. He’d sat at the back because he had fancied it, and he’d put his best foot forward because this was the best thing to put it at. And yet, he felt glad to have done so as she saw him chat with Mr. Du-Pits. Glad and _smugger_. Glad and _smirker_.

He hid his smirk as soon as Mr. Du-Pits waved her away and everyone too scattered to find a good seat. Finally, Mr. Du-Pits cleared his throat and leaned into his big metal Directing Microphone. “Welcome, my young aspiring actors, playwrights, and others who like to do whatever else needs doing for a play to be played” he announced merrily. “Today is our first and most inspired day in Drama Club.  Most, I mean, some of you might not be here for any other day, which is why we try to make this one the best.”

As Mr. Du-Pits stopped, they caught each other on the watch again. She gave him a confident smile, and he returned a small, crooked one. Not crooked _, knurly._ Unsure what to do with itself. He sat a little straighter, and she turned back to Mr. Du-Pits, all too satisfied. He _had_ been waiting for her to show, and was surprised when she did _.  Perfect_.

“To make it the least painful I can for our members with _seniority_ , auditions will proceed as follow: You perform and you may leave. They go first, and our first time applicants last. Sign Up order” he looked down at one of his papers and rubbed his temple the way you do when you’re served beef broth for the fifth December day in a row. You brace yourself and tell yourself it’s warm, that the smell is nice. That it will do you good, and that it’s exactly what you need.  However, it grows more tiresome and unpleasant with every spoonful.  “ _Olaf_ , you may begin.”

He stood up in a jolt, and strutted down the stairs. Every step he grew impossibly taller, and as he climbed up the small flight of stairs that finally led him centre stage, she wondered if he had always looked that sharp. In his clothes and in his features. Even his hooky, crooked nose seemed to have straightened itself under the stage lights. She had seen him on stage before, yet she’d never paid close attention. Or attention at all. He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbling along.

“I do much wonder that one man, seeing how another man is a fool when he dedicates behaviours to love, will, after he had laughed such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love,” he began. _Shakespeare_ , she recognized almost instantly. She also had to recognize it was surprising. Not in author, but in character choice. She surely would’ve expected a character more frenzied. Macbeth, perhaps. As he went on, the room fell quieter and quieter. She turned to observe everyone in her row, and everyone behind her. Even Mr. Du-Pits, who had seemed only too obligated to call him on stage, was entranced. She sat back, and let herself find him entrancing.

“May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it. Till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool,” he went on. Much as she disliked to admit it, suddenly he had made this seemed harder than she had anticipated it to be. He had made it seem harder by how _easy_ it came to him.  She knew him as gnarly, and snarly, and all too conceited. Speaking Benedick’s words he’d become someone else. He didn’t have the expected flair. Instead his arrogance seemed playful. Witty. Funny. “and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! The Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.”

And suddenly, he was back to himself. It was the applause, both begrudging and well deserved, that brought him back. He smirked a crooked, prideful smirk. He wiggled his one eyebrow and just for a second she thought he’d widened his smirk for her, only to turn and see _E_ smirking back in the seat behind hers. _Naturally_. She soaked up the applause as if by smiling he’d agreed to share it with her.  Shouldn’t shock her, since they’d been sharing most everything as long as she could remember. Shouldn’t shock her, but it did disappoint her. Ever so slightly.

The applause quieted, and he strutted confidently back into his seat, where he dropped himself and put his feet up, this time on the back of a seat in the row upfront. All eyes had followed him there. “What?” he said, sounding much quieter from the spectator side. At first she’d thought it’d been in awe still, until she realized it was in surprise. No one had expected him to stay. Well, perhaps _E_ had, as Mr. Du-Pits called her up next.

With her head tilted and flick of her long, blonde hair, she stood and swayed proudly up the stage. She took a deep breath, clicked her tongue, opened her eyes, and shifted too. “What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?” she began, just as Kit suspected she would. Once again her eyes travelled across the room, to find everyone equally enthralled by her. _Unsurprising_.  Only one person wasn’t paying much attention, and when their eyes met, he winked at her. Then he started paying attention, and his smug smile grew smugger.

“And Benedick, love on, I _will_ requite thee,” was the last Kit heard before drifting off in thought. The day before she had felt every confidence this couldn’t possibly be difficult. She had delivered specific lines many times, and many more she had pretended to be somebody she was not. Many times she’d told stories that weren’t hers, and she had always thought writing them was far more admirable. Now acting felt far too different from pretending. The sudden applause did nothing to bury the thought, and so she thought of a solution. To do what she did best.

Each new face to step on stage, she studied. She observed if their eyes twitched, how long each pause was. She heard intently, to notice if their voice went up or down and when the natural tone slipped. She recognized B, and he was truly helpful. She knew him as him, so it was easier for her to dissect how and when he was becoming someone else. This new task proved fruitful, as she could tell that every new name called on was considerably more nervous than the one before, which made her own nerves slip away. They were less experienced, surely. And she would have said worse, had B not stepped onto the stage herself. She was the first to go through a script apparently no one else but Kit recognized.  She tried to pin an author on it, until she realized the place she’d read those words was a commonplace book hidden under a pillow in her brother’s room _. May I be so converted and see with these eyes?_

“Katherine Snicket” was the last name to be called through the rusty microphone. By then, most everyone had left, which was a comfort to her as she walked up the tiny staircase she’d seen countless climb that day. Someone’s bubblegum _popped_. In that very second, she decided she did not wish to become anyone else. She hadn’t the practice, and she couldn’t afford the risk. She would not transform herself, she would merely expose a new side. There was a message to be delivered, she was determined to deliver it best she could.

She took center stage, her back perfectly straight. She tucked a rebel curl behind her ear, and deemed it best to look nowhere in particular. Her head tilted, she took a deep breath.

“Here I stand, with a simple request” she began. She had scribbled the words over and over, first trying to find them, and then to learn them.  She’d tried using someone else’s, but none of them conveyed the _right_ message. It was better to be straightforward. Get it over with quickly. “Eerie as it may seem, I must beg you stranger, to place your trust in me. Little as you know me, and little as I know you, there is nobody else I could trust.” She took a step forward, and felt her eyebrows curving up in worry. “Please, I beg you, just listen. Many know of your skills, and you have surely heard of mine. Everything you have heard of me is true, as I hope is everything I have heard about you.  Unless you are much too afraid to find out the truth, I beg you to join me.” A longer pause. She looked to the floor, suddenly imagining a made up moment in a made up story this might belong to, and more clearly seeing herself as the young woman who might say it. “Recently I’ve found there is hardly anyone I can trust, so I find it safer to turn to a stranger. Gullible as that might make me, I suspect you feel the same. Enemies are surrounding us. Now I see it clearly, don’t you? Trust each other is all we can do” she finished.

She exhaled in relief and smiled, taking a small bow. She had made the proper pauses and, even if this was indeed her first and only day in this club, she saw a piece of paper on his knee and a pencil in his hand, which meant the message had been received.

“Thank you” said Mr. Du-Pits, not bothering to fake an interest that was long gone, sparing her from what she was sure would have been a lack of applause. “That is all for today. Acceptance list to be posted tomorrow outside classroom three hundred and one, building D, which is where we will meet most of the semester.”

With that he stood up, gathered once more his pile of papers, and headed for the exit. By the time she was done gathering her own pile of books –a bit angrily, as they hadn’t proved themselves very helpful this particular time –,  Olaf was gone, and the last people were heading outside. _CLANG_!  Went the bell tower, as it often did at seven thirty precisely. It let her know she wouldn’t have to worry about where to find him next.  Though, in second thought, she _had_ delivered the message.  Had he received it, _he_ would find _her_.

Calmly she made her way out, her pile of books now inside a satchel that hung from her shoulder. Nearby the door she saw her little brother, and decided she would not be in the mood to explain herself. If he had written the words for B, he surely must’ve been there to hear her say them, and was wearing a frown curvy enough to let her know he was not all too happy with her. Maybe for not bothering to share she would audition, maybe for auditioning at all. Maybe because that meant she’d figured out his Bestowing, Erratic, Amicable, Terrific, Rich, Incredible, Clear and Enviable reasons for suddenly taking an interest in playwright. As much as she loved him, he could be both awfully touchy and awfully sentimental about them, as he was about many things –which come to think of it, did seem to align with this new interest of his.

Hidden among the growing crowd, she slipped her way past him and inside the Cafeteria. She quietly collected her due portion of Salmon Florentine and sat at a cornered table, not wanting to be found. She thickened her camouflage with pages of William Allingham, which she’d retrieved from her satchel, taking a few bites in between. She thought she’d been found by the familiar shape of her older brother, and paid no mind to his unusually tentative steps back and forth the seat in front of hers, until they turned into the unfamiliar clank of a half empty tray being carelessly placed, and a pair of long, bony hands in front of it as the figure leaned, towering over her.

“Who knew you had it in you,  _Katherine Snicket_ ” Olaf’s wheezy voice greeted her. She looked up to a grinning face, half of his eyebrow daringly raised.

“I told you I found it interesting, and I tend to be good at things I take an interest in” she lied, a smile _itching_ and _twitching_ to get out. It was true she found it interesting, it was untrue she thought she’d been good. Or as particularly good as she’d hoped to be.

“You managed to convey your message” he grinned, a grin that might have been as mocking as it might have been sincere.

“I might have made it far too easy” Ah, her smile finally got out. So small it struggled to be seen at all. Big enough for him to sit down across her, immediately put his feet up and let out a little snort. “You don’t expect me to think you tried to make it difficult. It _was_ far too easy.”

“Was it?” her smile curled up scrunching her nose. It would’ve disappeared if she weren’t so prideful.

“You’ve heard so much of my many, wonderful skills you’re begging me to help you with whatever assignment you have” he munched and slurped a string of his side spaghetti, grinning as he did so. A potential ghastly sight, had he not done it so playfully. Truth be told he  _despised_  the stuff, but it was either that or turning in bed all night in hunger. And it gave him good enough of an excuse to linger. So he _slurped, munched, slurped_. “I understand, Katherine Snicket,” sauce splattered, spinach flying, _munch!_ “my impressive talents expand far beyond the theatrical arts and my extreme good looks” he added, much to the irony of the sauce dripping from his chin.

Setting her own tray aside in a swift motion, she leaned into him from across his  _shoes_. His grin shrunk lightly. She had a _look_. A _serious_ look. A _professional_ look. A _not entertained_ look. He felt compelled to stop his arrogant munching and devote her all his attention.  He even put his feet down. She leaned a little closer, he did too. They were a whisper away.

“Says you. This is a serious matter, and if you’re at all intrigued, I need you to prove it. Both your sincere interest and your skill” she stated as quietly as she could.

“How?” he leaned closer, most definitely intrigued.

“Answer the  _one_ question and you may find out”

“So ask it”


	2. Accepting a role

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question was asked, and the right answer was given. Now it is time to receive a role.

It was five in the morning. Even though breakfast would not be served until seven thirty, Kit Snicket stood in the doorframe of her dormitory. She held her breath, and counted from one to ten. Then from ten to twenty, and from twenty to thirty.

When you’re done counting to thirty count to forty. When you’re done counting to forty count to fifty, and so on until you’re surprised you’ve managed to count so high without a single noise making you lose count – _then_ you’ll know it’s safe to make your way through, they’d taught her. _Sneaking out to Secret Meetings and Type of Pancake Syrups_.

She counted up to two hundred and eighty-four, and then to three hundred and sixty-five, and then to a four hundred forty-four, and then to six hundred – which was precisely how long it would take her to tiptoe from where she was to where she needed to go –and decided it was time to stop counting and start moving.

 She knew it best to tip toe with no shoes on, then considered how dirty the floor might be and felt far too fond of her socks as to ruin them. Quietly she pulled up a wrapped shoebox from under her bed, put on the glove-like slippers she’d knitted just for such occasions.

  _Whoosh!_ A rattle in the window made her freeze, start all over again all the way to seventy-seven (she had to be sure it had just been the wind), and then dart outside. She was already late.

The first light of the day hadn’t even begun to hint itself yet, which was something that made her only too sorry and only too glad. Sorry because it made the inside part a _little_ more difficult than it ought to be, her not knowing precisely the right corners in which to stop and what turns to make. She hadn’t been in Confidential Secondary long enough to have them memorized _on the move_ , so she often had to stop and remember what she did have memorized.  Glad because it made running across the field to under the bleachers much easier.

Once she made it there, she was nor sorry nor glad: only disappointed. Disappointed that there was nobody else. Disappointed that the absolute silence she’d heard on her way there wasn’t from him being as skilled as she required him to be, but as uninterested as she’d expected him to be. 

Then came a _double tap_ on her shoulder from a pair of bony fingers, and she **had** to feel impressed. He hadn’t made a sound. Not a creek, not a faint leap.  Even as he stood there waiting for her, his back curved and his head trying to avoid the bleachers, he was quieter than a mouse.  And barefoot, just like one. Had she been any less skilled herself, she would’ve gasp or shuddered. Or gasped and shuddered.  Instead she said “You’re late.”

“As are you. And seconds hardly make for a dramatic entrance. As a soon-to-be-thespian, you should know that, Snicket. By theatrical standards, I’d say I’m early” he whispered, smiling a smile that gleamed in the shadows.  She wouldn’t say it was reassuring.  Or comforting. But she would say it was inviting.

“Regardless of your tardiness, I appreciate you coming, _O_ ” she whispered back, remarking on the vowel to remind him protocol wasn’t to be ignored or skipped. “I was unsure you would come at all.”

“Yeah, well” he struggled with the height of the bleachers as he tried to cross his arms in nonchalance (key word being tried), “it better not have been for nothing, _K_ ” he grunted. The way he dragged the consonant made it clear he’d much rather be in bed. And that protocol was annoying. That he didn’t care for using it, and that using it as such unseemly hours was even worse.

“I hope it isn’t. But ultimately, that is up to you” she responded, tilting  her head in a way that would’ve slid her glasses back in place had she been wearing them. Her face without glasses wasn’t something he could recall ever seeing before, yet he couldn’t tell it was all that unpleasant. What was unpleasant was her willingness to drag people out of bed, and keep them out, for the sake of histrionics. _If she’d just get to the point_.

“It is? How so?” he asked, trying to rush her there.

“You must decide if you are willing to trust me or not.  I am inclined to believe you are, perhaps that you already do, since you are standing here. But then again, you might not. You might have just been curious. Curiosity is the lust of the mind, yet being merely lewd is never any good.”

The word lewd caused a chuckle to _slip_ from his mouth, perfectly childish and mischievous. He tried to cover it up with something in between a glup, a sniff and a snort. Surely, sometimes the organization’s ways and duties got on his nerves, but he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the flair and gravitas of it, and he knew better than to try and be funny about it.  “If I say I do, will you just say whatever you’ve been taking days to say?”

“Only if you mean it.”

“I _mean_ it” he chuckled again, taking a step back, opening his arms and glancing down all the way to his feet, then up again. “You’re seeing me in my pyjamas” (maybe he didn’t know better.)

Against her will, she chuckled too. Those _were_ ridiculous pyjamas, in a pattern that was neither zigzags nor stripes, and colours you don’t want to hear about.

In second thought, none of this was worth mentioning to her, nor laughing about. She gave a sniff so haughty it snuffed her chuckle away, and his smile too.

“This is beyond sleepwear” she stated, her nose still up in the air. He made a face, half of his eyebrow going up ( _is sleepwear even a word?_ ). “It is, as you suspected, about an assignment. An assignment that requires an associate for me to complete it safely. A trustworthy one.”

“And you’ve come to _me_?” he asked before he could stop himself, the other half of his eyebrow joining the rest.  Then he cleared his throat and pushed it down. “Sure, I am renowned for my talent, cleverness, handsomeness and being all around better than anyone else … but we barely know each other.” 

Not that knowing each other had ever mattered much within the organization. Knowing each other _well_. Because they _did_ know each other. From the time he and Esmé put spiders on a teapot to threaten everyone into involving them in the strawberry ice cream heist, and the time she recited a poem he didn’t like for the entire class. Neither of those things was something that’d make them each other’s first trustworthy pick. Or second. Or third.  And they knew it, and they knew the other knew it.

 “Knowing each other has never mattered much within the organization” she said out loud. “Being a volunteer makes you trustworthy enough. You made it here without getting caught, not even by me. And I waited long enough just to see if I’d listen to your tiptoes myself. You are also good at acting, which means you are good at pretending, and I needn’t know much else.”

There it was. She _had_ been trying him. This meeting, the time and place. Late enough to make it safe, early enough to make it dangerous. The library. She’d just been dipping her toes in the water, making sure it was fit to dive in or a swim.

He knew he should be annoyed by it. Really, he should be. _Typical volunteers_. They just couldn’t say whatever needed saying, do whatever needed doing. No. They had to turn it Victorian, Elizabethan, or whatever, slap a poem on it.  Except he was an actor, so he was only annoyed by the part of it that involved a test.

 The rest, he was…proud? No, not proud. Flattered? No. Of course he could cross a school without getting caught. That’s volunteering one-o-one. And good at acting? Good was _offensive_.

Still, he wasn’t _terribly_ offended, so he decided to be intrigued instead. “I do, if you want my help. Go on, tell me about this assignment of yours.”

“There are five objects, seemingly identical, hidden –or rather being safely kept– in five separate locations. The assignment is to retrieve them.” Each word got softer and softer, until it became a whisper. She made a pause for questions. He didn’t ask any.

 “We do not have a specific timeframe, but it _is_ urgent. We will not have much guidance, either. And after we retrieve the first object, we will have no help.”

A question formed, and his eyebrow frowned about it. “What objects?”

“If I disclose that, you will be hopelessly, irrevocably, tightly bound to this assignment.” Her eyes were locked to his, and there was a stillness about her. Ageing. Made her taller, even. “You’ll be fully compromised until its completion, and perhaps even after it. Do you understand what that means?”

“I understand, Snicket. I understand what taking on _any_ assignment means” he huffed, impatient both about her mystifying of _this_ assignment and assignments altogether.

“You don’t. It’s no ordinary mission, _O_ ” once again pro-to-col, “which is why I need you to be _absolutely_ certain you’re willing to join me, so I can be _absolutely_ certain my associate is trustworthy.”

He took a step closer to her, and all of a sudden she noticed how he towered over her. As if he’d grown overnight. His frown sunk in deeper, and he placed his palm under his chin, one finger at the tip of his nose.  He had a question to ask, but he didn’t ask it. The question was: why would you trust anyone over your siblings?

While he didn’t have any himself, he did have a family, and he also knew they were all that was left of hers. He didn’t ask it because the question answered itself. The only reason not to go to them would be to protect them. Family did that, he supposed. He’d never needed protecting.

 That meant it wouldn’t be a simple scavenger hunt.  It would be something risky. Bold. Unsound. Treacherous, possibly.

It all suddenly made sense. He wouldn’t have gone about it any other way.  She didn’t need know much about him, because if she did, she might grow to care. And caring too much about one’s associate was of no use in a difficult assignment.  It was compromising. It could ensue chaos. And that was why she’d come to him.

 Come to think of it, he was the opposite of flattered.

“And _if_ I said yes … how can I be sure _my_ associate is trustworthy?” he asked, not bothering to whisper. Half of his eyebrow went up, defiant. If she could try him, he could try her.

“I’ve seen you in your pyjamas” she responded simply, the stillness about her tossed away by a shrug.

And then came a smile he’d never seen before. It wasn’t stiff. It wasn’t secretive. It wasn’t filled with pride. It wasn’t secretive. It just _was_. Maybe small, as he suspected all her true smiles were, but it was sufficient. _She’s good,_ he thought.  Because true or not, it earned her his trust.

“And I’ve seen you in yours. But this is beyond _sleepwear_ ” he reaffirmed, smiling back.

A smile she’d never seen before. It wasn’t a sneer. It wasn’t crooked. It wasn’t grim. It wasn’t sly. Maybe it was smug, as she suspected all his true smiles were, but it was sufficient. _He’ll do_.

“It _is_ ” she agreed to her own words, her smile intact. “So now you decide if you really want to know. Remember, hopelessly, irrevocably, tightly bound.”

“Heard you the first time. What. Are. The. Objects?”

“Typewriters.”

_Gulp_. “ _The_ typewriters?” His forehead scrunched up, as his eyes widened. _Good_. That meant he took it seriously.

“The typewriters, yes.”

“Who for? _Why_ for?” he couldn’t help asking, the scrunch scrunching in deeper.

He knew he shouldn’t have asked. They had been taught not to. They had been taught that for everything a reason, and that the reason would more often than not become more or less apparent someday. Both could imagine why for, and who by –one of them knew for sure– and yet silence lingered for a moment.

“That’s strictly need to know, and we needn’t know it. All we need to know is what we must do, and that we can trust each other to do it.  After the first one goes missing, suspicions will arise. Nobody but us should know” she explained. He nodded, forcing his eyes not to roll all the way back into his skull. Some _one_ had already gone missing. Suspicions were risen enough. 

“Nobody will” he promised, the reality of what they had agreed to dawning in on both of them. 

Birds chirped, and the first rays of sunlight started to peek across the night clouds. He thought of the nightly shadows, and the whispering.  And the initials. And the anagrams. _Nobody will_. Was any of that good enough a disguise?

He felt that question, and another, and another slip from his head to the tip of his tongue when a branch _cracked_.  Leaves crunched. They exchanged a look. A look which meant they knew better than to think it was _just_ the wind. They held their breath, nodded, and mentally counted to ten. Then Twenty. Then thirty. Up to fifty-six.

They kept counting until he could no longer hold his breath. They both exhaled as quietly as they could, and exchanged a different look. A look of trust.

“Resume later?” she whispered. He nodded. They both held their breath again. Ten. Fifty. Ninety-nine. And they slipped back into what was left of the shadows.

There was silence, and until the first gym class of the day, not another noise.

* * *

 

 

As I’m sure you know, later can be a distressingly vague term. Later can mean in a couple of minutes when it comes to washing your hands, in a couple of hours when it means doing the dishes, or never when it concerns being allowed to have a second serving of dessert. In the case of resuming their private meeting, later meant ‘when we see each other again in a situation that does not arise suspicions’, such a situation being a gathering outside classroom three hundred and one, building D, at five o’clock sharp, where and when a long anticipated list was supposed to be hanging on the door.  

The situation grew complicated when the list was not there. All that was there was a sign signed by Mr. Du-Pits, and a small crowd gathered around it, their faces a mixture of smiles and frowns, strangers and volunteers. The sign read:

DRAMA CLUB MEETING MOVED TO THE AUDITORIUM.  
 ALL WHO AUDITIONED ARE WELCOME.

The words on the sign caused the kind of chit chatter among those who’d read it that could disguise any conversation that needed disguising, and a struggle to get to read it from those who hadn’t that would make any slipping away unnoticeable.

 Yet Kit refrained from approaching the person she needed to meet. Not only because he found himself at the very centre of the chit chatter and right in front of the sign, seemingly displeased by the words ‘ _all who auditioned_ ’, but because the person he was already meeting with was not someone she deemed trustworthy, or worth meeting with.

 She seemed just as dazzled, her long red fingernails pressed against her crossed arms so tightly her skin looked like a balloon about to pop. “I hope it doesn’t mean _all_ who auditioned were accepted” she scowled, “because if nobody is out, it cannot be _in_ ” she stated, and he nodded along. “And if it’s not in, I’m _out._ ”

He opened her mouth to say something in response, when someone else chimed in with a “whatever it means, I highly doubt we will find out standing here making assumptions.” Someone being Beatrice, earning herself a particularly sharp and nasty glance from Esmé, and shrug from Olaf. Kit imagined the shrug meant ‘sounds fair.’ Before Esmé could say anything as sharp or do anything as nasty as her glare, he nudged her shoulder and rushed her along to the Auditorium.

Brief a gesture as that had been, it made Kit second guess everything she’d so confidently felt hours earlier. She second guessed it the way you might second guess your pronunciation and spelling if someone from a distant country across the sea writes a word differently than you, and makes it sound much nicer when they read it out loud.

It made her think he _already_ had a most trustworthy associate. Someone to catch spiders with. Someone with whom he enjoyed to learn his lines. Someone who enjoyed learning lines back. _Nobody will_ , he’d promised. But did nobody mean what it sometimes meant to her (nobody _but_ Lemony and Jacques)? 

Much like cultural differences, the thought stalled her and made her stand on the spot in a few seconds of thoughtful consideration. By the time she made it to the auditorium she was the last one there, and was asked to shut the door behind her by Mr. Du-Pits. It is never nice to be asked to shut the door behind you because it often means you’re slow or late, or slow and late, and all eyes are on you to let you know they’re glad they’re not you.

All eyes on her, she slid to the first seat on the back row, and sunk quietly into it. Among all eyes, she found a single gleaming pair. It came with a crooked smile. Not crooked in a wicked way, but rather crooked in a way that showed it wasn’t quite sure whether to show or not. Which way to tilt, what to say. When it did it show it was lighting quick, raw enough to draw a small smile back from her.

“You may be wondering why all of you were invited back, and why none of you have been assigned a role yet. Why was there no list?” Mr. Du-Pits announced from the stage with the panache you’d expect from a drama teacher, drawing all eyes back to him. Kit mentally thanked him for it. “The reason is simple. The list _did_ exist, until a few hours ago, but I crumpled it and tossed it away.”

Much as Mr. Du-Pits expected, there were gasps, and gapes, and ooh’s and ah’s and what’s and why’s and heads were turned to each other. Kit had no one to turn her face to, so she looked at Mr. Du-Pits as he did his best to hide a smirk. For a drama teacher, his best was not very good.

“I tossed it away _because_ ” pause for effect, “I received a brilliant submission on my desk this morning. An original play by a mysterious Tom K. Niles Nécy” he beamed with pride, as if having someone mysterious submit something unexpectedly was something to boost and announce. She doubted anyone in the room had ever heard of a Tom K. Niles Nécy, Mr. Du-Pits included, yet it did not take long for her to beam with pride too. She knew him and loved his work. Well, perhaps there were _two_ people in the room who knew him and were fond of his work.

“Of course this does not drastically change the casting on the list” he flung a list up for everyone to see, and she saw a few people leaned and even stood to try and get a glimpse, “but it does change the number of people who might need to get involved, which is why I’ve called all of you back. Being this an _original_ play, never before performed here or anywhere, we have no costumes, props, or sets for it. I will call to the stage the people who have been cast, and distribute your scripts. The rest of you may decide whether or not to sign up for any of the additional duties, and resulting group will receive a script.”

To nobody’s surprise, Olaf was the first to be called to the stage. He strutted with the same pride he’d strutted the day before, and snatched his script from Mr. Du-Pits to viciously devour it the way she couldn’t say she’d seen him devour any other piece of writing. Then Beatrice was called, which seemed to surprise everyone but the two of them. Knowing the playwright, she had every confidence a role had been written just for her.

Name after name was called. In order not to think whether hers would be called or not, she thought of words that rhymed with them. Cobbler Sword. Can’t find a word Brawler. Hat-stand Armchair. Misspell Owners. And, _Bit Cricket_.

Funny how the words came to her quicker than the shock. _Odd feeling, shock_. Just the day before she had been only too displeased to find anyone had the slightest doubt she would get cast, and now she was shocked to be cast herself. Pride shoved shock aside even quicker, and she stood from her seat with her head so high it might as well have floated.

Each one of her footsteps creaked as she stood on stage. For the second time in the day, all eyes were on her. Something she would have to get accustomed to, she realized. Even if all her life she’d always strived and thrived at the opposite. Well, _almost_ always.

The rest of the lucky cast sat in a circle on the floor, reading their own set of writing. Bertrand moved slightly to the left, making room for her to sit. On the second page, the role “Delilah” was highlighted in a particularly blinding colour on her script. Something else waited on the last page. Something that had nothing to do with the play.

The play, for all the excitement it’d caused, was fairly simple. A humble plot about a man who ponders whether or not he should cheat on a pumpkin growing contest to save his family’s farm and, consequentially, his family, and the people involved in the cheating, the family and the contest. A funny line here and there. And a strange line at the very end. A strange line in strange handwriting on a typewritten page. A line that read: _Around you is where you must always look first._  

Her first instinct, as taught and practiced, was to not react to it at all. As taught and practiced, she glimpsed at the others instead. They were all on the last few pages, if not finished and looking around for something to entertain them while they waited for the rest. Pretending to do the same, she glimpsed and glanced around, to see through them and through their last page. No handwriting. If anyone’s script had a similar addition, they were hiding it just as well.

Her gaze lingered on him a little longer, though he knew it shouldn’t have. There was no reason to study his face, because if the message was about what she suspected it was, and he had gotten it too, that meant it hadn’t _just_ been the wind that morning. That they hadn’t whispered softly enough, nor counted as high as they ought to. It meant someone out there knew something that was only theirs to know.

Mr. Du-Pits interrupted her trail of thought by dismissing the newly appointed crew and sitting among the newly appointed cast. He made them take note of his own already formed ideas for each character, and she used the opportunity to make a note of her own.

 Then he stood up to muse hysterically, circling them. Rather than walk he _skipped_. She used one of the _creaks_ to conceal a _rip_.  And she used the fact that everyone was staring at him to place a small piece of paper under the sole of her shoe.

Quickly she slid her foot across to him, gently nudged Olaf’s knee, and slid her foot back in place. Without turning to her or to the paper, he stretched out his hand and took it. Just as slyly, he slid it inside his own script.

For the first time in Drama Club, each tick of the clock seemed _insufferable_ to him. And for the first and very, very last time, he felt being leading role was an annoyance. As soon as he’d gotten it and slipped it on his script, that itty bitty additional piece of paper had felt like a scab. It _itched_. It made him _twitch_ , and shift his way around, all in an attempt to finally scratch it and find out what it said without anyone taking notice.

But being leading man meant everyone took notice of _everything_ he did. It was true he loved it. He loved the widened eyes as he went through his lines, and the _beat_ it took for whoever spoke next to say their line.

 But it was also true, though he would never admit it, that he liked it better when no one knew he was performing. Not until he wanted them to. He liked those ‘it was _you_ eavesdropping behind that lampshade!’ and ‘you were that Hungarian postman!’ moments more than he liked the stage applause.  And he liked applause _so much_.

Which was why he found himself bored. This particular role: sappy, sappy, sappy. Goody goody goody. Only _one_ soliloquy, about should I or should I not, only not to at the end. To him the answer was always _get on with it already_. Which was what he was trying to do with the other cue in his script. _Itch itch_. All he could do was scratch his elbow, and try not to catch a particular pair of eyes every time they met his. ( _Read it!_ They said. _I’m trying!_ His responded.)

Once they were done with the first read through Mr. Du-Pits asked them all to quietly reread their notes. He took a second longer to go through his. Long enough to read: _Library. Rob Byre Biography.11PM._  

As taught, practiced and perfected he did not react at all. Even if he’d found it a _bit_ disappointing. The single instruction didn’t tell him much. He didn’t turn, or wink or nod. What he did, as taught and practiced, was put one hand behind his ear as to scratch it, crumpling up the piece of paper and then scratching his neck, tossing that small evidence between his mandatory vest and his mandatory white shirt. They would eventually go in the laundry, dissolving it for good. 

Finally, Mr. Du-Pits assigned them to come up with more ideas of how to make their characters come alive. Different versions, he said. Versions that could play with other versions of the others, see which made the game the most fun.

He doubted any version he tried, all of them endlessly handsome and charismatic, could be enough to make this play _fun_. Less tedious was the goal. Much as he wanted to say it out loud, Mr. Du-Pits was halfway down the stage’s small staircase, which made him figure it probably wasn’t worth saying anyway.

One by one the cast stood up from the circle. One by one except for two, who once again caught each other on the watch.

“Can’t wait to work with you” he said _just_ for her, though he said it to all.

He grinned _her_ a grin full of mischief. Then he stood up without giving her a second glance, and followed Mr. Du-Pits’ steps.

Kit smiled a mischievous grin of her own. Perhaps centre wasn’t any righter than center, nor flavour any tastier than flavor in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me stciking to it and updating weekly! Thank you very much for those of you who continue reading, as always that means the world to me as do any kudos or comments that you leave for me. We're almost caught up with where I left the previous version! Which makes me really excited because it means the story will finally move along in the next update. I hope you stick around for it!

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! Finally! The rewrite of this fic. Some is almost word by word, though I did tweak with most scenes and significantly changed the chapter length to work better around the plot I finally revised and completed. As always any kudos and comments mean the world to me so please leave them, and I'll try to have an update for you next week!


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